


Byzantium

by onvavoir



Series: The Wisdom of Crocodiles [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Character Turned Into Vampire, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-03-29 16:35:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3903250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onvavoir/pseuds/onvavoir





	Byzantium

"I'm _fine_ ," he says to Foggy over the phone. "Don't make me change the locks."

It's more or less true. The weakness and nausea eased up the first night, and he actually managed to get around the house on two feet. The next day was worse, but now that the sun's setting, Matt's spirits are higher. He might even eat something. He can't remember the last time he had food. Or wanted it.

"Evidence says otherwise, buddy. Just at least promise me you won't go out... doing your thing? I know you're like, super ninja who can take all kinds of punishment, but please, just this once?"

"Foggy, I've been trapped in the house for two days. If I don't get out, I'm going to go insane."

"Then let's go to Josie's! We'll get hammered-- wait, you're not on antibiotics, are you? No-- that would involve seeing an actual  _doctor_."

"Claire's a nurse," Matt grumbles.

Foggy sighs. "Sometimes I don't know why I bother."

"Because you're a good person who cares about your friends."

"That's hitting below the belt, Murdock."

"Bye Foggy..."

He decides not to put on the suit, but he does take a long shower and change his clothes. There's a been an unusual smell on him the past couple of days. It's dark, not sweat or any body fluid he's accustomed to smelling, something earthy that he can't seem to get rid of. It's not unpleasant, but it makes him wonder if it's something chronic, if maybe he really should see a doctor. He can smell illness on other people, but what about himself? How would he know?

The clammy air carries all the usual scents of the city-- car exhaust, perfume and cologne, garbage, alcohol, metal and rain. He's learned to tune out his unpleasantly keen sense of smell, but tonight it's different. The composition has changed. More importantly, the way his senses respond to that composition has changed. The olfactory disorientation makes it difficult to navigate the way he usually does.

There's a Chinese place not far from his house that he sometimes orders from. It has the usual food smells of oil, chicken, beef, pork. Rice: steamed, fried, raw, burnt. Normally it's just a part of the tapestry of his neighbourhood, and when he's gone a nine-hour day without stopping for lunch, it smells like heaven. Tonight, it makes his gorge rise-- he scurries three blocks to get away from it before he retches. 

He can hear scampering-- two rats poking around in a corner, tiny fleet heartbeats and tiny feet. The heavy stink of motor oil on the asphalt and the rank animal smell of fur and... blood. Pumping redly through hearts, moving to extremities and back again. It hones the little knife of hunger in his gut. _Blood_.

His face and hands go cold. Impossible. Unreal. He can't even make himself think of the word. They don't exist. This must have a medical explanation. Claire might know. For the time being he goes home to put on the suit and tries not to think about how much he needs it-- blood. Tries not to think about sinking his teeth into something and sucking it dry.

He channels the hunger into aggression into adrenaline, moving, listening. For the first time, he thinks of it as  _hunting_. The creeps and scumbags are his prey, and that thought really doesn't do much to quell the urge. He takes a deep breath and listens. Sirens, close and far. The acrid tang of smoke from a house fire that's just been put out. It coats his tongue with carbon.

A half-mile away, two men are having a fistfight. He listens. When it doesn't stop, he hops rooftops and climbs down a fire escape. The older one has gained the advantage, and when he bends down to punch his prone opponent, Daredevil drops almost silently to the pavement. Clears his throat. The guy turns around.

"You."

He smiles. "Me."

The man takes an instinctive step back.

"What the fuck..."

He falls over a pile of trash bags, puffing up the reek of decay, and runs off into the night. The second guy, still down, scrambles back on his elbows.

"Don't... don't hurt me..."

His nose is bloodied-- the taste lies on Matt's tongue like an old coin and melts into his nervous system like the speed he tried once in college. He grabs the guy by the front of his jacket and shirt, hoists him up and shoves him back against a wall, snarling.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the part that isn't seething with rage and hunger, something in him tries to stop. It watches him tilt his head and then sink his teeth into the guy's throat. It screams. Blood floods into his mouth, down his chin, vital and necessary and it's _good_ , and then he staggers back, horrified.

His victim slouches against the brick, pale and blank-looking. Matt pulls his glove across his mouth. His hand shakes. The guy he's just bitten is still standing, reeling but alive. The smell of blood is everywhere, in every one of Matt's pores, and he has to make himself step back or risk attacking the man again. He turns and flees.

 


End file.
